ering the picket-pin into the pavement.

Shortly after, Saint Vrain himself returned.

"Well," I inquired, "what happened you?"

"Nothing much. That's a weasel that never sleeps. He had mounted his
horse before they came up with him, and was very soon out of their
reach."

"But may they not follow him on horseback?"

"That is not likely. He has comrades not far from here, I warrant you.
Armijo--and it was he sent those villains on his track--has no force
that dare follow him when he gets upon the wild hills. No fear for him
once he has cleared the houses."

"But, my dear Saint Vrain, tell me what you know of this singular man.
I am wound up to a pitch of curiosity."

"Not to-night, Harry; not to-night. I do not wish to cause you further
excitement; besides, I have reason to leave you now. To-morrow, then.
Good-night! Good-night!"

And so saying, my mercurial friend left me to Gode and a night of
restlessness.

CHAPTER NINE.

LEFT BEHIND.

On the third day after the fandango, it is announced that the caravan
will move onward to Chihuahua. The day arrives, and I am unable to
travel with it. My surgeon, a wretched leech of a Mexican, assures me
that it will be certain death to attempt the journey. For want of any
opposing evidence, I am constrained to believe him. I have no
alternative but to adopt the joyless resolve to remain in Santa Fe until
the return of the traders.

Chafing on a feverish bed, I take leave of my late companions. We part
with many regrets; but, above all, I am pained at bidding adieu to Saint
Vrain, whose light-hearted companionship has been my solace through
three days of suffering. He has proved my friend; and has undertaken to
take charge of my waggons, and dispose of my goods in the market of
Chihuahua.

"Do not fret, man," says he, taking leave. "Kill time with the
champagne of El Paso. We will be back in a squirrel's jump; and, trust
me, I will bring you a mule-load of Mexican shiners. God bless you!
Good-bye!"

I can sit up in my bed and, from the open window, see the white tilts of
the waggons, as the train rolls over a neighbouring hill. I hear the
cracking whips and the deep-toned "wo-ha" of the teamsters; I see the
traders mount and gallop after; and I turn upon my couch with a feeling
of loneliness and desertion.

For days I lay tossing and fretting, despite the consolatory influence
of the champagne, and the rude but kindly attentions of my voyage